


To a great mind, nothing is little

by OfWilsonDreams



Series: Come at once if convenient [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bottom John Watson, Breeding stand, Dildos, Face-Fucking, Glass Dildos, Hand Feeding, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfWilsonDreams/pseuds/OfWilsonDreams
Summary: This is not a sequel. I just read Dee Laundry's sequel and got inspired to wonder, what was going through Sherlock's funny brain when he started not being in a relationship with John?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Come at once if convenient [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168784
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	To a great mind, nothing is little

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dee_Laundry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/gifts).



Sherlock composed new ads for the sex sites every month or so. He had just posted his latest version on three legal sites and one darkweb site, when he saw that all four were showing him the same ad - picking up on the keywords he was using. He had seen it before and dismissed it, as impossible to carry about with him on his peripatetic appointments with men who wanted to be tied up and face-fucked, and too expensive to abandon if he had to leave in a hurry to get to a case.

Sherlock had long since made his peace with the fact that he himself had a rigid and very small array of things other people would let him do to them that would get him off, especially as he had a dick that, when erect, made most people decide they didn't want to get fucked by him after all, especially not up the ass. Other people wanted variety in sex. Sherlock did not. 

John was normal and liked variety in sex. But he certainly, and enthusiastically, enjoyed what Sherlock enjoyed doing to him. Providing Sherlock didn't ask him too often, John seemed likely to continue to be a delightfully convenient option, reasonably consistent in his availability. Did that make this purchase worthwhile? Sherlock stared at John assessingly.

It was not worth verbally consulting John beforehand. John might well agree in theory, like a brave little soldier willing to try anything once, but Sherlock would only know if John was genuinely excited by observing his reactions.

Well.

Sherlock used his own credit card. He had nearly always one stolen from Mycroft in his wallet, but he didn't feel like discussing this purchase with Mycroft. 

_("You're making a committment at last, Sherlock, how delightful. Is it John? Of course it is.")_

Mycroft liked food.

He liked feeding, and he liked being fed, and he liked being ordered to diet and exercise, and he liked all sorts of hideously boring things to do with food that Sherlock couldn't be bothered with.

But when Mycroft summoned him to the Diogenes Club for dinner, Sherlock always went. The food was delicious, even if Sherlock had to watch Mycroft eating, but the rules of the Club were so strict that Mycroft couldn't talk to him throughout dinner - only afterwards, for an hour, in one of the Club's private rooms where short meetings were permitted. 

Mycroft wanted to tell Sherlock about his Trust, of which Mycroft was the active trustee. Sherlock listened to him for a measured twenty minutes, which was how long it took for one of the club servants to bring the after-dinner coffee, then pointed out that Mycroft could have told him all that in an email, drank the coffee black - it was a dark, richly-addictive brew, and Mycroft always added cream - and left.

He walked home to 221b Baker Street: at least it would be a year before Mycroft felt they had to go through that again.

John was on the phone when Sherlock walked in. He looked up and his face crinkled in that delightful way he had, and said "Hello. Just ordering take-out. Want some?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, feeling for the latest credit card freshly purloined from Mycroft. "Big brother will pay." Mycroft had bought him dinner, Mycroft should buy John dinner, that was only fair.

John made the kind of "oh" face, that said he was relegating Sherlock's situation with Mycroft as something like his own situation with his alcoholic sister, and that infuriated Sherlock, abruptly, silently. He took the phone away from John. "Did you finish placing the order?" he asked him. 

"Yes - "

"Good," said Sherlock, and spoke down the phone to the take-out woman. "Just double all the portions, will you?" He was not at all hungry. He hoped John was. "Oh, and add another portion of egg-fried rice."

He ran through the mundanities, put the phone down, flipped the card out of sight - Mycroft would cancel it tomorrow - and said to John, "Do you remember your safe word?"

He watched John's face change. He enjoyed that. It was like nothing he could remember experiencing before - not even with Redbeard. John licked his lips, and nodded.

"Strip," Sherlock said, and turned away to draw the curtains. John was standing naked at attention and Sherlock left him only to pull the folded stand out of his room. He had put it together out of John's sight, thinking to introduce it to John gradually, but this might be better. From the look on John's face as Sherlock unfolded it in front of him, this would be better.

"This will immobilise you," he explained to John. "Completely. You won't be able to move it, no matter how much you struggle, and you can't get loose of it yourself."

John stared at the stand, and his jaw dropped a little, and his cock twitched, and his hands moved on his thighs. He was obviously picturing himself fastened into it. 

"Of course, I'll let you out when you use the safeword," Sherlock told him.

"Mycroft," John said, but not as if he was using the name. He sounded more like he was praying. It was against Sherlock's principles to ask a subject to change his safeword. "Sherlock..." he stared at the stand, as if he was longing for it. "Can we... I'm actually pretty hungry, can we - "

"No," Sherlock said. "Were you safewording?"

"No," John said, and manfully, he placed himself on the stand, and was silent while Sherlock triced him up. The stand held the subject's legs wide apart, exposing his anus, feet off the floor, knees and thighs supported comfortably, arms fastemed down in three places, mouth at an angle only convenient for face-fucking for a much shorter man than Sherlock. Held in the stand, the subject's groin and belly and tits were completely exposed to a groping hand, and his ass was at the right level for being fucked.

Sherlock checked angles, and moved the low table. Perfect.

"I'm going to put you in this regularly," he told John. "Every time you go in it, I'm going to put a bigger dildo up your ass, and fasten it in. I'm going to stretch that tight little hole of yours wide enough until I can fuck you any time I want to."

Sherlock preferred dildos for many reasons. First, and most importantly, he could have a dildo fucking a man in the ass while he himself face-fucked. But, secondarily, he could penetrate a man's asshole as slowly and carefully with a dildo as was needed, and vary the dildo by size, to ensure the man he was using was consistently excited and felt no pain: Sherlock preferred submissives to masochists, because while he quite enjoyed causing pain, he was too lazy to bother with a really dedicated masochist. Also, in his considerable experience, a man could either take Sherlock's dick up his ass, or he couldn't: but it was true, he had never had the opportunity to keep using increasingly-wider and longer dildos up the same man's hole on any regular basis. Scientifically, it was impossible to permanently alter a man's asshole, but it was possible to get an asshole so thoroughly used to having big smooth objects pushed up there that the asshole "learned" how to relax when opened and penetrated. 

And John would let him do it. The first dildo Sherlock selected was only a very little wider than one he knew John could take with enjoyment. He was not in the least turned on, but he got a certain personal satisfaction from working the glass dildo into John's ass, slowly and carefully, listening to John squeal and grunt and telling him, in carefully chosen words, just how much he was enjoying this business of making John into his fucktoy. The stand had straps to make sure a dildo stayed in, of course, and Sherlock fastened them. He walked round to examine John from all angles. He'd done a perfect job: John was flushed red all over and twitching - twitches that would be squirming wriggles even in the cuffs and shackles and leg-spreader, but in the stand, John just couldn't move. His dick was swaying and pulsing as if it had a life of its own. Sherlock knew John couldn't come without manual stimulation, so let that be - John was perfectly, mindlessly arounsed, and could do absolutely nothing about it, and Sherlock was about to take revenge for that damned dinner with Mycroft, and that damnable safeword John had picked, while John was certainly too out of his mind with rampant lust to think of using it.

Besides, John would be expecting that the evening would end with a blowjob. John liked having his face fucked. Sooner or later, it was going to occur to John that he was in this stand for use, not pleasure - Sherlock was too tall to use John's mouth with any degree of comfort, and John wasn't stretched enough for Sherlock to fuck him there. But it certainly wouldn't occur to John any time soon, from the dazed expression on his face.

The doorbell rang. The food was here. Sherlock ran down and collected it. 

He laid the boxes out on the table convenient for the sofa, and sat down on the sofa, convenient for John's mouth. 

"You take what I give you," he told John, and began with the first dish of roast pork with black bean sauce. He'd thought of chopsticks, or spoons, but fingers were safest - John's head was the only part of him he _could_ move at all. Sherlock hand-fed John the small, tender pieces of pork, pushing each bit into his mouth with his fingers. There were four spring rolls: one by one, Sherlock slipped them between John's lips. Fried duck. Two dishes of everything. More pork. Rice. Another lidded box of duck. The egg-fried rice. A bag of pineapple fritters. More rice. This should have been boring, or even disgusting - if he'd had to watch Mycroft eat for two hours, it would have been both - but John was so focussed on him, John's mouth reacted so beautifully to Sherlock's fingers, to the food morsels being pushed inside, John was so helplessly, delightfully aroused and so unable to do anything about it - 

Sherlock realised, about halfway through, that he was becoming aroused. Not by accident, not by a passing thought, not with the sudden feeling that he must come now or he wouldn't be able to think - but a kind of slow, building, entirely strange feeling that increased every time John only licked at his fingers or the palm of his hand, every time Sherlock pushed his own fingers into John's mouth with a morsel of food. He wanted to have John make him come, and he never wanted this strange kind of meal to end. 

He'd meant to keep John in the breeding stand for an hour, the first time. He realised, as he was slowly feeding John the last morsels of rice, that it had been twice that. He had better get the dildo out. He had to be very careful about that, the thing had been in so long, but he eased the glass weight out of John's hole with exceeding care and no damage. 

"I wish I could fuck that now," he said out loud, realising suddenly John could hear him. He had spoken so entirely to himself, so focussed on the hole as the dildo slid out, that it was strange to realise again that John was there - and very, oh very aware of him. "Not quite yet, though," he said, in the same assessing tone, but this time very much for John's hearing. He certainly wanted to do this to John again.

He unfastened John carefully from the breeding stand, and helped him over to the bathroom, and into the bath. Hot water and a long soak would help with any cramps.

"I wish you could too," John said, in a dazed kind of voice. He stared up at Sherlock from the bathtub. "Let me," he said, and opened his mouth.

And though Sherlock hadn't meant to, he facefucked John til he came, adding his own spunk to John's already-stuffed belly.

As always, after coming, the world seemed brighter, sharper, everything more present. Sherlock stared down at naked pink John, still hard - his erection had swelled and bobbed and twitched throughout dinner, but as Sherlock hadn't touched him, John hadn't come.

Sherlock wasn't capable of the kind of denial he saw other people tell themselves, about their desires and their needs. He recognised facts. He'd just learned something new about himself. He'd never known he could get turned on by something so mundane. By having John lick his hands, by pushing food into John's mouth. He never did this to the men he used, but John had earned it: Sherlock reached down and gently clasped John's prick with the hand he had fed John with. He stroked the prick unhurriedly, looking at John's mouth. "You can come now," he told him, and John did, spraying Sherlock's hand and the bathwater indiscriminately, and looking like a study in pink steamy bliss. 

"Let's do that again," John said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "We will be doing that again," he reminded John. "I need to stretch your hole."

John wriggled comfortably. "Of course you do," he agreed. "I want that too. But ... " his voice became slightly wistful, "I liked you feeding me. Even if I wasn't in that contraption. I really liked your feeding me."

He really had. Even though Sherlock had monstrously overfed him, and John was probably feeling bloated - this hadn't worked at all as revenge. John had loved it too much. Sherlock realised he didn't care. It was strangely interesting to know that if he wanted to get aroused, he could do so by ordering John to his knees, mouth open, and making him eat from Sherlock's hands. 

"You'd like me to do that to you all the time," Sherlock said slowly, watching John's reactions. He saw John's body move, spent though it was. "You liked being hungry and having to wait for me to feed you." He paused. "No, not being hungry. You liked being dependent on me. You liked having to take your food from my hands, eating what I gave you. You liked being fed, my fingers pushing inside your mouth."

John nodded, his body slowly, sleepily reacting. Sherlock went on talking to him, watching him react. He realised he was making promises he'd never made to any man he used before, making rules he knew John wouldn't keep, about taking food only from Sherlock's hands, being Sherlock's pet to feed, but he didn't care. He had John in a way he'd never had a man before. He could make use of him any way he wanted. And if he wanted to feed John, well, why shouldn't he?

Mycroft never had to know.


End file.
